


Inquisitor Cadash Sings the Sad Bear Man Blues

by PazithiGallifreya



Series: Lady Cadash [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-10-16 05:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10564344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PazithiGallifreya/pseuds/PazithiGallifreya
Summary: I found the final judgement scene for Blackwall/Thom Rainier rather rushed & trite, to be honest. I mean, it's an optional side-quest/love interest thing so I guess they weren't going to spill a lot of ink on it, but why settle? Why not sit down and re-write most of the damn thing? I ask myself....(Now with New & Improved angst/fluff! See Chapter 2!)





	1. Chapter 1

“For judgment this day, Inquisitor, I must present Captain Thom Rainier, formerly known to us as Warden Blackwall. His crimes... well, you are aware of his crimes. It was no small expense to bring him here, but the decision of what to do with him is now yours.”

Cadash, or the Lady Inquisitor as she is still not accustomed to being called even months later, sits like a stone in the Inquisitor's seat. Her feet do not quite reach the floor comfortably. She braces her weight on the tips of her toes, trying to relieve the pressure on the nerves and arteries in her legs. Her usual impulse is to get it over with, shake the dust from her heels, and take her leave. But this isn't the usual case.

She's done this before, a dozen times. It's never easy - no situation is ever as simple as she'd like it to be. To sit at the head of this massive chamber and stare across at another living soul, charged with choosing another's fate like one might decide on which pair of shoes to wear that day.

The seat always felt too big for her, as did the ever horrid task.

She has never felt comfortable judging others, even in the privacy of her own thoughts. Her own life was hardly beyond recrimination. She'd kept most of her past to herself; her former life in the Carta was something she did not see benefit to making common knowledge, and even her role in the Inquisition has been far from perfect. She's mostly flying by the seat of her pants these days, lurching from one crisis to the next while hoping that she can keep it all from crashing down into a million pieces. And always leaning heavily on her advisers and her friends for their support and guidance.

She knows she's a fake and that does not help her confidence. She knows she is no Herald of Andraste at all, but rather a common-as-gravel, dirt-poor surface dwarf who found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time one day. The House of Cadash may have been feared in Orzammar many generations ago, and may be known among the Carta as well, but neither she nor any of her immediate relations had been anything noteworthy among their ranks. She'd been sent as a spy, one of several - nothing more important than that.

The other Carta spies had died along with the rest. The only difference had been her foolish attempt to be noble in a situation she'd had no hope of salvaging. Now that she had her memories of the events at the disastrous conclave returned to her, she wondered what would have happened if she'd stayed behind that door with her mouth shut, what would have happened if she hadn't been stupid enough to try and stop the murder of Justinia.

But when she was feeling more honest and less sorry for herself, she knew it likely would only have resulted in Corypheus's success that day, and that the future she'd seen in Redcliff would already be here. Was the hand of the Maker in this? Was there a Maker at all? She still didn't know. Part of her didn't want to know. No wonder she and Sera understood one another so well.

And here she was today, sitting in judgment as another supposed reprobate's life was dropped into her hands, with all and sundry looking on attentively to see what she would say and do. She knew what was expected of her. Many of the Inquisition's ranks had already expressed their disapproval of this man's presence, of the price that had to be paid to bring him from Val Royeaux in the first place, of the simple fact that he was not already swinging from a gibbet for the crows to make a supper of.

His hands were bound and two guards flanked him upon either side, his chains rattling as they dragged him before the judgment seat. His eyes remain fixed upon the floor as she spoke.

“I didn't think this would be easy, but it's harder than I thought.”

“Another thing to regret. What did you have to do to release me?”

Cadash studies his face as he finally lifts his head and meets her gaze. She schools her features carefully, trying to distance herself and wishing this day had never come. She wants to shout at him, to leap from her seat and grasp him by the shirt and shake him as hard as she can. Instead, she replies in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.

“Josephine called in a few favors. There are enough people out there who owe the Inquisition.”

The guilt drops from his face, suddenly replaced by anger. What right does he have to be angry, she thinks.

“And what happens to the reputation the ambassador has so carefully cultivated? The world will learn how you've used your influence. They'll know the Inquisition is corrupt.”

Blackwall was still trying to be noble, apparently. No, not Blackwall. He was never Blackwall. _Rainier_. She wants now to simply hate this Thom Rainier. It would make everything so much easier. She _should_ hate him, and give him the death he desires so greatly, and wash her hands of it.

“I wish there'd been another way, but my options were limited.”

“You could've left me there! I accepted my punishment. I was ready for all this to end. Why would you stop it? What becomes of me now?”

Cadash has not yet dealt out death in judgment, not even for far greater crimes than Thom Rainier's. Could she do so now? She felt ill at the thought.

“You have your freedom.”

“It cannot be as simple as that.”

He is still seething, judging her as she knows she ought to be judging him. This feels almost right to her – that she should be the one who is weighed and found lacking, not him. She certainly feels inadequate to this task. As she meets his hard gaze, all the memories of the past year clamor at the back of her mind like a kennel of restless hounds. He'd followed her faithfully, his shield and sword always between her and danger, holding the attention and the teeth of the enemy while she crept in from behind like a thief.  He'd nearly been killed in her service more times than she could count at the moment.

And how many times had he stood behind her as well, whispering soft encouragement in her ear, or seeking her out after a difficult time to comfort  or advise her? It was in her nature to withdraw and hide herself away, to remain unseen when feeling wounded or vulnerable, but his soft and patient manner had always gently pulled her out of her brooding and self-doubt without feeling like an expectation or demand.

Had _all_ of it been an act? That is what he would have her believe. That is what _he_ believed. Had he ever really loved her at all, or was it simply a role, something he thought the Grey Warden would do and so did in his stead?

“What would you have me do?”

“Send me back. Let them hang me. I have earned it, it is what I deserve.”

Cadash was, for a moment, speechless. _Deserve_. She repeated the word to herself, softly, where no one else would hear. It felt foreign in her mouth. More than that, it was distasteful. She wanted to spit it out like a mouthful of muddy swamp water. She felt a pang of shock at just how much it suddenly disgusted her.

“You say you deserve death. How do you know this?”

Thom Rainier's face screwed up first in confusion, then frustration. He replied to her like she was a particularly dense child.

“I murdered people. For money. Lied to my men. I told you this. Others have told you this. What more do you need to know?”

Cadash shook her head, pushing down the awful howl trying to claw its way up to her throat. Part of her wanted to let it out, wanted to scream, or sob. Or to simply burn the world to the ground and walk away forever, perhaps. Tears pricked at her eyes but she blinked them away.

“So you think if you die, it will fix all of this, then, is that it? You think your head and your blood will pay off some kind of debt?”

Rainier did not respond. He could no longer meet her gaze, it seemed. Cadash leaned back in her throne (there was no other word for the damnable thing, as much as she despised it) and sighed, rubbing at her temple where a truly epic headache was blooming.

“They're dead, Thom. That man, his family, whatever soldiers of yours that didn't escape. They won't come back just because you die also. I could kill you and all I would have is yet another body to take outside and burn. What use is that, Thom? Do tell me, I'd dearly love to know!”

Thom Rainier swayed where he stood, listing to the side like sinking warship. His shackles rattled as the soldiers on either side of him pulled him back to his feet. Cadash could feel the stares of the crowd in the hallway, some curious, some bloodthirsty, some disappointed and angry.

She looked over the heads of the mass and met Varric's gaze across the room. He was watching her softly, pity written across his features. She didn't know what to feel about that, really. He'd probably offer her a shoulder to cry on later, but the thought felt like an itch under her skin. Cullen stood near Varric at the back of the room, his expression inscrutable. Beside Cullen, Cassandra... looked like Cassandra. She would be happy to see Thom Rainier hang for this and had told Cadash as much. She'd offered a few words of cold sympathy about Cadash's relationship with Thom and tried to sound supportive, but she didn't understand how Cadash felt and didn't seem to understand that anger wasn't the only possible response. Cadash hadn't had the energy to explain, anyhow. Cole was perched like a vulture on one of the balconies, his face hidden behind that ridiculous hat, waiting to see what she would do, no doubt, while Dorian and Leliana hovered behind him. Iron Bull was conspicuous in his absence, and Cadash felt a pang of envy for it. She did not see Sera either, but suspected that Red Jenny was present, somewhere out of plain sight. She did not want to know what Vivienne thought.

Cadash wished she could order them all out at once, the crowd and her friends and advisors alike, that this could be done in private, the weight of those around her making her feel smothered.

Thom Rainier seemed to regain his balance, finally, answering her question. “I know it won't bring them back. I'm not a child. But I have nothing else to give.” He looked up at her, his eyes pleading with her, begging for his own execution, for an end to years of torment from his bleeding conscience, if nothing else. “It's for the best. Best for the Inquisition. Best for you. Just... forget me, I beg you...”

Cadash shook her head, unconvinced.

“No. You're wrong, this time. It's not for the best.”

It was time for this three-ring circus to end, anyway. The kitchens would have dinner waiting for her in her private rooms and she already felt like she'd been wrung and left out to dry. Cadash sat up straighter in her seat and addressed the entire hall, projecting her voice to be heard.

“Thom Rainier, you are free. Free to atone as the man you are, not as the traitor you thought you were or the Warden you pretended to be.”

Cadash stood from her seat, but Thom Rainier stepped forward, his movement arrested by the shackles and by the soldiers.

“My Lady.... I.... “

Cadash lifted a hand to forestall him and closed her eyes tightly, willing herself not to cry, not in front of this already milling and darkly murmuring crowd. There would be consequences for this day and she would deal with it, but not now.

“Blackwall... Thom. _Thom_. We can speak later. We _will_ speak later, in private. This conversation isn't over.”

She turned to the soldiers flanking him, shaking her head at the absurdity of the last few days. There was a sense of unreality now settling over her, and she felt exhausted. “Andraste's tits... take those bloody shackles off of him. And I want one of you to stay near him at all times, for now anyway. I don't know if anyone here has the balls to try something over this right under my nose, but I don't want any trouble.”

She gave Thom Rainier one last surreptitious glance, then turned her back on both him and the crowd. She felt grateful, then, that the door to her suite was immediately to the left of the Inquisitorial throne and that no one dared stand between her and it tonight.

Her feet seemed to gain twenty pounds each as she shut the door behind her and climbed the steps up to her rooms. She loved Skyhold but it had too many damned steps, she decided. It definitely wasn't built by dwarves. As she'd anticipated, a flagon of lager and a plate of now-cold food was on her table. No doubt the kitchen staff had thought her “court” night would last as long as it typically did, not the drawn out drama she'd just orchestrated. Her appetite had evaporated anyhow.

Embarrassment and shame itched under her collar and she stripped the dress jacket off, tossing it onto the dresser without bothering to fold it and put it away. She felt scrubbed raw inside, and full of pinpricks left by the hundreds of eyes boring into her earlier downstairs. She threw herself across the massive bed and finally allowed herself to weep openly.

Where had she gone wrong? She should have known better, really. Falling in love is a game for idiots and children, she thought. It's not like she was stupid, after all. It was obvious that he'd been hiding _something_. She'd always known he didn't quite add up, that he could never answer a question in a straightforward manner, that he always changed the subject when she brought up his past.

She'd just never guessed that what he was hiding was quite _that_ bad.

Maker knew she was no Paragon herself. She might not have outright murdered anyone, but she knew how to kill and not in the theoretical sense. She'd spied and stolen and smuggled for the Carta, and knew more than one life and livelihood that had been ruined in the process. It's not like she had never felt guilt over it, either, but before the disaster at the conclave, she'd never believed there was any other alternative for a poor surface dwarf with no legitimate skills or connections.

She'd always excused herself with the thought that she was no better than she ought to be, anyway. It had always been a lie, and when she'd found herself faced with those possessed Grey Wardens attacking the Divine, she found that she'd simply run out of excuses.

Thom Rainier, though? He'd told her once about a Chevalier who had lended him aid in a tourney and offered to sponsor and train him after. He said he'd refused the offer out of stupidity and youthful pride. Was that Blackwall's story, or Thom's? Or was it just a fiction entirely? It didn't seem like the kind of thing one would make up to impress a girl.

Would she spend the rest of her life wondering which bits were his and which were Blackwall's and which were made up entirely? Perhaps Varric would know, given his own penchant for embroidering the truth.

Or maybe she should stop hiding in her room like a sulking adolescent and go ask Thom.

Cadash rolled over from where her face was pressed into the duvet and sat up. She knew she should probably wait until morning, when she was less exhausted and less raw, and Thom himself had time to cool down, but then, she was never one to simply give in to common sense or good advice (even her own).

She didn't want to deal with the crowd, however. She stood and grabbed her wrinkled jacket off the dresser and walked out onto the balcony. The sun had set half an hour ago and a chill wind was whipping up the side of the mountain. It felt good against her overheated face, even if she knew she'd be shivering later.  Cadash swung a leg over the parapet to scuttle down the masonry work like a squirrel in the rapidly cooling night air.

There were few people in the courtyard this late in the evening, thankfully. Thom Rainier would be back in his hayloft by now, probably. He was a man of habit. She knew that if she knew nothing else about him. He'd also be brooding and probably feeling very sorry for himself. She'd let him get his apologies and self-flagellation out of the way, she supposed, then maybe they could begin to move past this.

Did she even _want_ to move past this? She stopped halfway to the barn, letting the thought ooze about her mind. It couldn't have all been an act, could it? Can you fake _that_ much? If he told her tonight that he'd never loved her, she'd walk away without a glance back, but she wasn't ready to just slam the door shut, no matter how angry she was with him at the moment.

True to form, he was sitting in the barn, a candle burning on the table as he carved another bit of embellishment on the toy griffon he'd been puttering with for months, his broad back tense across the shoulders as he set a chisel down to swap for a scrap of sandpaper.

One of the soldiers she'd ordered to stand guard was propped against the wall. She nodded to the young man and twitched her head toward the exit and was grateful that he took the gesture how she'd intended and went outside immediately.

He had to have heard her enter, she'd made no effort to conceal the sound of her footsteps (which she could, quite effectively, when it suited her). He brushed the sandpaper over the wooden toy slowly, a steady soft rhythm. A slight hitch in his breath gave him away, however. Cadash walked over to stand beside him, looking down at his rough, large hands moving gently over the wood, content to wait on him to speak first. After a time, he did.

“My Lady.”

She crossed her arms, unsure what to say to him. He set the sandpaper down and leaned back in his seat, folding his hands in his lap and staring at them as though they might hold some answer.

“You granted me my freedom. To atone... somehow. But would _you_ accept that? And what I used to be?”

Cadash shifted on her feet, chewing at her bottom lip. “I might. What will you do? As Thom Rainier, not as Blackwall.”

He shook his head, fidgeting where he sat.

“I lied about who I was, but I never lied about what I felt.”

“And what do you feel, then?”

He glanced at her with a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I feel that I love you, still... although I do not know what you might feel about that.”

Cadash breathed in deeply and let it out slowly.  “No more play-acting, Thom. I need to be sure this is you. Not some kind of role or conceit.”

He turned to look at her and seemed to choke slightly, but recovered himself quickly.

“I'm not pretending anymore. No matter what I was or what becomes of me, right now, I am just a man with his heart laid bare. I leave it in your hands.”

Cadash looked away from him, unsure if she was ready to accept this. To forgive.

Thom slumped over in his chair, seemingly taking her silence for some kind of refusal. “I don't know how to be with you as Thom Rainier. I've been Blackwall for so long, I'm not even sure who Thom is anymore.”

Cadash turned back to him. “I suppose we'll just have to find out, then. If you want the company, that is.”

Thom nodded with the bare hint of a smile softening his face. “I wouldn't mind.”


	2. Like the Dead Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like the Dead Sea  
> You told me I was like the Dead Sea  
> You'll never sink when you are with me  
> Oh, Lord, I'm your Dead Sea
> 
> (The Lumineers - "Dead Sea")

Cadash shifted on her bedroll, pulling the woolen blanket tighter around her shoulders. She didn’t remember the Western Approach ever getting quite this cold at night. The so called ‘Hissing Wastes’ were something else entirely. It did not get nearly as hot during the day, which was certainly more pleasant, but the nights were bitterly cold and the wind never, ever seemed to stop.

She ran her fingers through her hair for the fiftieth time, feeling yet more sand between her fingers. She’d combed, brushed and shaken it as much as she could stand, but it never seemed to run out. There wasn’t enough water for proper bathing for miles around, and their drinking water was too precious to waste on vanity or small discomforts.

_Small discomforts._

Cadash shivered and pulled into herself as tightly as she could. This expedition was turning out to be one of the most miserable yet. Varric had complained so loudly of the sand in the Western Approach getting into Bianca that she’d taken pity on him and his precious crossbow, and left them behind. She’d twisted Sera’s arm and bribed her with a promise of extra treats from the kitchen and a supply of volatile substances of questionable legality until her friend agreed to come along.

For magical support, she normally brought Dorian, but this time, she’d left the Tevinter mage in his nook at Skyhold. He’d never gotten along all that well with Blackwall, but his comments had escalated from mere sniping about his appearance into outright scathing sarcasm. Cadash knew she didn’t really have the right to tell Dorian off, given what they had not so long ago discovered about ‘Blackwall’ - she might have (mostly) forgiven Thom, but she wasn’t the sort to abuse her authority in trying to force others to feel or think a certain way.

That didn’t mean their anger and judgement directed toward him didn’t upset her, though.

Vivienne, at least, respected Cadash enough to largely ignore Thom beyond what was necessary to get the job done. Cadash wasn’t wholly certain what Vivienne thought about the whole thing. She’d told Cadash that her offer to allow him a chance at redemption was “generous” but otherwise had kept her thoughts to herself. The mage had graciously agreed to come along on this particular trip, although Cadash knew well enough that the accommodations were lacking compared to Vivienne’s usual standards.

And that just left Thom, in another bedroll on the other side of their shared tent. He snored softly and shifted from time to time, but Cadash had kept her back toward him since they had set camp.

She had not turned him away after his ‘trial’ at Skyhold. The expense of gaining custody of him had not been inconsequential, although she would never tell him exactly what his life had cost. She had not turned him away from herself, either. Although she had not welcomed him home with open arms, either, precisely.

Their relationship had settled into an uncomfortable state of being nothing in particular. No more stolen kisses or evenings passed in quiet conversation or in companionable silence pressed against one another.

She barely looked at him these days, yet always he remained no more than a few steps away since they’d departed Skyhold. He trailed her like a silent shadow, coming forward only when in battle, to draw the ire of the enemy while she maneuvered herself to strike, the old familiar dance they had learned long ago still remembered.

She’d asked him what he felt, if it had been a lie or not. “I feel that I love you, still... although I do not know what you might feel about that,” he had told her.

The truth was, she did not know how she felt, either. She still loved him, but there was a sliver of ice wedged in her heart that had not yet thawed. She wondered how long his patience would last. She had taken him for granted for so long, it was hard for her to believe he could ever leave, but he had proven well enough that he was quite capable of disappearing in the night.

Cadash drew in a deep breath of dry, frigid air, shivering yet again. Thom rolled over behind her, a hitch in his breath as he resettled. She rubbed at her scalp again, trying to ignore the grit. She scratched at her jaw as well, the roughness there from another source entirely.

To cap off the whole miserable venture, she’d lost the razor she kept hidden, buried in the bottom of her satchel. The bag had slipped from her shoulder while climbing over the rocks near a deep ravine that cut across the desert like a jagged scar. She’d managed to grab it at the last minute, but much of the contents had slipped out, echoing as they bounced down into the abyss. Maker knew where any of it had finally landed, and whether she’d see any of it again.

That had been a week ago and her... embarrassment... had grown in quite swiftly, true to her dwarven warrior caste roots. She had a mane to rival her tent-mate’s at this point. She cursed under her breath, fighting back tears.

It was a stupid thing to get so upset over, particularly in the face of what they were doing and the peril they faced, and she knew it. Sera had laughed at her plight, but seeing the hurt on Cadash’s face, had then just shrugged and reminded her that there was nobody for miles around but a few venatori and red templars, and they were all going to get an arrow in the face anyway.

Thom said nothing, and she knew he would never be seen or heard to mock her, but part of Cadash was still mortified to be seen by him in such a state.

“Who am I gonna call beardy now? There’s two of you! Big Beardy and Little Beardy then!”

Cadash wished she could find humor in it, but all she could remember were the jeers of humans and elves in taverns in her youth, the rough hands tugging and cruel mouths spitting, and the ill-humored laughter. Even other dwarves were not always kind about it, such things being less common and less accepted on the surface than in Orzammar. Her mother had warned her, of course. Even taught her how to get rid of it, on one rare afternoon when she’d been sober enough to keep a steady hand, just months before she’d died.

The canvas of the tent bowed inward with a strong gust of wind, and the flap closing the entrance suddenly ripped open, the rope whipping in the air like an angry serpent. Cadash rolled to her feet and stumbled the distance to grab at it, cursing under her breath and squinting in the dark as fine sand in the wind scraped at her face while she wrestled the flap back down. Frustrated tears drew lines through the grit on her cheeks as she struggled to re-knot the rope.

Just as she nearly finished, the wind ripped the canvas and rope from her hands again, the skin of her palms stinging in its wake and leaving her on her hands and knees. She nearly shrieked and cursed aloud as she reached out into the wind to retrieve the rope a second time.

One long arm stretched around her and grasped the offending tent flap firmly, pulling it down as the other wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her back into the shelter of the tent. Thom had the tent flap tied down in a matter of seconds, and he withdrew, taking the heat of his chest against her back with him as he retreated.

“Bit of a wild night...”

Cadash bit back the sob that wanted release. It had been several days since she’d heard the dark brown rumble of his voice. He’d followed her out to this vast emptiness without complaint or demand, and followed the Inquisitor’s orders without question.

She returned to her own bedroll and collapsed upon it, sitting cross-legged and pulling the blanket around her shoulders again. “I didn’t know it could get this cold in a desert.”

She could not see her companion in the near total darkness of the tent, but she could hear him shifting where he lay a couple feet away.

“There’s nothing to hold the day’s heat in... few trees, no grass, no cloud cover, no moisture. It just... fades back into the sky.”

She nodded despite the futility of such a gesture with no light to see by. The campfire outside had long gone out, despite their attempts earlier in the evening at keeping it going. Even Vivienne’s magic had its natural limitations, and apparently a sandstorm was one of them. Cadash hoped that Vivienne was not coming too much into conflict with her own tent mates, but had no doubt that Sera was also less than pleased with the arrangement. Perhaps Harding’s presence as a potential witness would at least keep them from outright murder.

“Are you alright, m’lady?”

Cadash shivered where she huddled. “It’s fine... I’m fine.”

She nearly jumped out of her skin when a hand suddenly landed on her shoulder, then slid around to the back of her neck.

“Fine? Your skin is like ice! Here...”

She felt him wrapping his own blanket around her. “Who’s going to freeze now, then?”

“I’ll be fine. I don’t much feel the cold, never have.”

His voice had moved away as he retreated back to his side of the tent. Cadash wiped at her face with the back of her hand, the salt of her tears mixing with the ubiquitous grit.  Cadash laughed bitterly at herself, suddenly.

“Something amusing, m’lady?”

“Perhaps... you keep telling me you’re not good enough for me, but you’re far too good, really.”

She heard him sit up again and could feel him peering through the dark at her, although if anything, he could see even less in the dim light than her dwarven eyes could. 

“You don’t really believe that. You ought to have lords and princes laying laurels at your feet, not some broken down soldier with a bad history trailing after you.”

She laughed again, flopping onto her back on the bedroll. “It’s all a mistake, really... the mark, all of it. We found that out in the fade, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that nightmare already?”

“I remember you rushing in to save the Divine. No one else did that.”

“Stupidity doesn’t make me a saint, Thom.” He probably cringed at her use of his real name, but part of wanted to push at him... push him away. “I’ve always known exactly what I am, and it’s nothing special. I just... tripped over fate, somehow. I grew up quite poor, did you know that? My parents never married, and I hardly remember my father. He’d show up, stay around for a while, then they’d start fighting and he’d leave.... eventually he just never came back. Why would he? My mother loved her drink more than she loved him, and he never wanted _me_ in the first place. I remember them fighting about that, him telling her she should have got rid of me before I’d been born. Didn’t understand what he meant then, maybe, but I knew he didn’t want me. I don’t know that my mother really did either. Or anyone else for that matter. Even the Carta didn’t have much use for me, just another lyrium mule...”

“He was an idiot, then. All of them. It doesn’t matter... none of that matters. Look at all you’ve done with the Inquisition! You’ve led us this far, haven’t you? Not everyone could do that.”

“Leliana and Josephine have more claim to that than I do. Even Cullen... let’s be realistic, right? I can close fade rifts and otherwise I’m just the _Herald_ , just here to be _seen_ , and certainly I’m not much to look at, so far as that goes.”

Thom seemed to have run out of counterarguments and Cadash pulled the blankets up over her head, intending to end the conversation there. It was late, she was still half frozen, and the wind howling around their camp felt like a hungry beast laying in wait outside.

“M’lady... may I...?”

She sighed, wondering what he was going to do now and just wishing she were back in her warm bed in Skyhold. She heard him moving and felt him settle along beside her, his arms hesitantly wrapping around her, the layers of blankets remaining a buffer between them. They had not been in such close proximity since the night before he’d left her behind to go put his head in a noose in Orlais. She was torn between wanting to tell him to move away and wanting to crawl into his arms again. In the end she did neither, for the moment.

“Why are you still here, Thom? I’m no more what you think me to be than you a Grey Warden and we both know it.”

He pulled her closer, tucking her head underneath his chin as the weight of his chest settled more firmly against her back.

“I beg to differ, if it’s all the same. I don’t care what your parents told you, or anyone else for that matter. If they can’t see you for who you really are, they’re fools.”

“What? An absurdly hairy surface dwarf who has spent most of her life smuggling lyrium for crooks and bastards? Thom, I assure you, I am not some kind of... of _princess_ or... whatever it is you’re looking for.”

He huffed a sigh, shifting behind her.  “Never had much use for princesses to be honest. I’ll settle for a woman with her heart in the right place. You’ve done some good in this world, that’s enough.”

She wasn’t terribly convinced about the merits of anything she’d done so far, but was too tired to argue any longer. The warmth and weight of him was a comfort to her, if his words were not, and she felt herself finally growing warm and drowsy.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sera’s sharp voice roused her in the morning, far too early for her preference. She was shouting at Vivienne over something while the mage responded in her usual dismissive tone. Cadash didn’t quite make out the words of their current argument, but she hardly cared. She squinted at the dim light of early dawn filtering in through gaps in the tent canvas and rolled over, her face pressing into Thom’s chest and for a moment, she forgot everything that had happened between them since Orlais.

“Feeling any better?”

“Hm.. what?”

“Bit of a bad night... not that I can blame you, in this miserable place. Exactly the sort of waste that brings out the worst thoughts.”

Cadash grunted noncommittally. There had been nothing new or unique about anything she’d said the night before, it was only that she had _said_ them.

Out loud. To Thom.

She groaned softly as she felt her face flush with embarrassment. He wasn’t the only one who’d kept things to himself, although her secrets were not quite so damning. Didn’t mean she’d really cared for others to know about any of it. She’d tried to leave her past where it belonged, well behind her and shut away tight. She maneuvered a hand to rub at the grit in her eyes and over her face. Her mouth felt like she’d been chewing cotton and she wiped her cracked lips, cringing at the feel of the soft hair surrounding. _Oh, and that Maker-damned thing is still there_.

She pulled away from Thom, keeping her back toward him as she reached for her boots. She had a lot to be ashamed of these days, it seemed. _Why did I let my pack slip like that? I just had to get up on top of that bloody boulder, ooh got to see the other side of the canyon, don't we just?_

“If you want to talk, later...”

“I’m fine, Thom. Let’s just find these ruins the Venatori are after. Sooner we finish, the sooner we can leave, right?”

“And you’re just going to somehow avoid looking at me the entire time... right.”

She startled at that statement, one boot halfway on. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I... get it, really. I know I should have told you the truth from the start. I know you should have left me where I was as well. But I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Cadash finished pulling the boot on and laced it up, then reached for the second, doing the same, taking her time with the menial, rote task as she tried to figure out where he was going.

“I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. Even if you never look at me again. I’ve no right to demand anything of you, ever again, but perhaps it might be easier on both of us if you just told me what’s going on between us? Because frankly I haven’t got a damned clue at the moment.”

Cadash shook her head as she reached over for her daggers, hooking them into her belt. She knew he was waiting, that he would wait forever if she demanded it, but she still didn’t know why. Why the hell was he here? Why the hell did he insist on caring about her so much? It made no sense to her at all. It never had, really, even when she still thought he was a Warden with some pettier secret.

At least as a Warden, she thought, perhaps he was making the best of limited time, and the resources of the Inquisition to find the rest of his order... but Thom Rainier? What the hell use could Thom have for a thing like her? She wasn’t beautiful or wealthy, and the Inquisition, she felt, had a definite lifespan, hopefully measured in months or a few years rather than decades. Eventually, she’d go back to being nobody again. She knew that. She’d accepted that. Hopefully not quite so destitute, perhaps she’d be allowed to retain some small amount to support herself, or at least find some means of feeding herself that didn’t involve the Carta. Perhaps Varric knew some people... she’d have to ask him at some point.

Her personal effects sorted out, she’d run out of delaying tactics. She owed Thom some kind of response, whatever he insisted. She scratched at the thing on her face again and the old, bone-deep shame that came with it. Well, if nothing else, at least it might convince him she wasn’t worth all this drama and angst. She turned where she sat and looked up into his soft gray eyes in the dim light.

“You’ve been... a great strength to me, Thom... these last few months. No one has ever... but... however much you insist you owe me something, I can’t help but feel like I’ve taken advantage, somehow. Wouldn’t you rather be with someone more... well, pretty, I guess? Feminine, delicate... _human_? You shouldn’t stay here just because you feel guilty. I... I’m not some kind of punishment for you. I _won’t_ be.”

He stared at her as though she’d suddenly suggested that he propose to Vivienne. After several heartbeats he shook his head as though he hadn’t quite heard what she’d said.

“Is that what you really think? Maker’s balls, Cadash, I’ve never thought of you that way. Please believe me....”

A loud bang outside the tent heralded the end of Vivienne’s patience with whatever Sera was doing, along with Harding’s indignant shout at being caught in the middle of it. Cadash dragged herself to her feet and undid the knot holding down the tent flap, any response to Thom delayed for the time being as she rushed to survey the damage.

“Oy, you lot, knock it off!”

 

  

* * *

  

 

The dwarven ruins were an eye-opener, to say the least. A paragon and his sons and household had made lives for themselves, somehow, in this inhospitable land. Thom remarked that it may have been a wetter environment in the past, but Cadash found the notion difficult to believe as the dust worked its way further into every corner of her skin. Taken with what they found at the Storm Coast months earlier, and other smaller relics scattered about, the history of dwarves on the surface of Thedas was shaping up to be longer and more complicated than Orzammar would like to believe.

They’d managed to skirt around the dragon without waking it, at least. It would need to be dealt with, eventually, but she was content, at the moment, to let it sleep undisturbed. After all, Bull would never forgive her if she killed yet another dragon without him. They’d taken out several Venatori camps and a few stray caravans of red Templars, freeing the slaves and captives of both as they went. Cadash couldn’t really complain about the success of their small incursion into the region.

The discussion with Thom had been put on hold, but she knew eventually he’d bring it up again, even if she did not. But at the moment, she just wanted to get back to Skyhold, wash the sand out of her... everything... get rid of the damned dwarf beard, and go back to pretending she’s Somebody Important, because that’s what everyone expected, it seemed.

It was several miles ahead of travel on foot before they’d make it back to the outpost where they’d left the horses, and the wind was rising again. Harding was at the lead, with Sera pestering Vivienne (who pointedly ignored her). Sera periodically glanced back at Cadash and Thom trailing behind them, throwing Looks at her that Cadash wasn’t quite sure what they meant. A few miles later, Sera walked backwards while staring at her and Cadash just lifted an eyebrow. Sera finally threw her hands up and jerked her head in Thom’s direction violently.

Thom chuckled beside her at Sera’s antics. “I suppose she wants us to patch things up.”

“I think she ought to mind her own biscuits,” Cadash muttered mostly under her breath. She loved Sera, but the woman could be rather troublesome at times.

Thom glanced down at her through those long, dark eyelashes that she had once found rather charming, when her feelings for him were purely one-sided and any romance was only in her own imagination. _I should have kept my mouth shut, and none of this would matter._

Cadash shook her head, trudging on. Thom’s mood seemed to have lightened, at least. His sense of humor had always been... well a lot like hers, she supposed, although she didn’t always quite know what was amusing him. At the moment she really only wanted one thing, anyway, and the rest would have to wait until she’d had time to get her head screwed back on properly. “I just want to get back to Skyhold, soak in a hot bath for the next twenty years, and get rid of all this bloody hair.”

“The bath I concur with. The other... do you really?”

Cadash nearly tripped over her own feet. “What... I figured you’d be the first to want it gone.”

“I sort of figured out you’re a dwarf well before you lost the cut-throat down that ravine. I’m clever like that, you know.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Would you tell Sera to cut the ends of her ears off?”

Cadash shook her head. “That’s not the same and you know it. To start with, that’d bloody _hurt_.”

“Your skin has finally healed up entirely for the first time since I met you, and you didn’t have to douse the rash in a gallon of elfroot tincture like the morning before Halamshiral, either. I frankly don’t give a rat’s arse what you do with your own face, but if you’re going to drop the choice between your suffering or not into my hands, you don’t have to convince me of the answer.”

Cadash walked on for several minutes, unsure what to say to that. She didn’t quite believe him. It didn’t matter anyway, Thom aside, there was an entire Inquisition and the world beyond. “A pity the rest of the world thinks otherwise.”

“Damn the rest of the world. You’re the Inquisitor. You’ve got a bloody army at your back. What are they going to do, anyway? You’ll save this world and they’ll damn well kiss your feet for it if they know what’s good for them.”

She didn’t really believe him, but she reached out and took his hand into her own. The rest of the world could mind their own damn business.

 


	3. Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man they still call Blackwall does not call her beautiful

The man they still call Blackwall does not call her beautiful, anymore. He did - only once - when they had not known one another quite so well, when their conversations had vacillated between seriousness and flirting. Her eyes had narrowed and the corner of her mouth had curled just ever so, a hint of something disagreeable in her expression as she peered up at him slightly askance, as though he had just offered to sell her fool’s gold. 

She had mumbled a quick “thank you” and drifted away from the conversation, leaving him to stand with his own confusion for a companion instead that afternoon.

Cadash never says “thank you” for a compliment from a friend, much less a lover - it is a diplomatic response for dealing with the parade of petitioners who invade Skyhold to ask for a boon or to make a threat, or both in one breath, a way of appearing grateful for something of no value. She has no patience for flattery and empty words.

Cadash has acid green eyes and cheekbones that could cut. Her mouth might seem soft and inviting, were it not for the hardness in her expression. Each individual part, on some other face, might even be beautiful. But not for Cadash - nothing quite fits, nothing quite lines up. everything is too large or too small, the angles are all just ever so slightly wrong. 

And there is, of course, the beard. The mark of the Warrior caste, at least in some bloodlines, and also some Smith caste families, although less often. Her mother told her she ought to be proud of her ancestry, that House Cadash was still a name to be feared, that even exile had not dulled the family entirely. She never really knew why, though, and the tale Valta had told was too brief to be illuminating. Pride was something she knew nothing about, anyway.

Hers is a face she is well accustomed to, but it is not beautiful. After all, she has been told this more times than she can remember, although rarely in such mild terms. Her mother, her cousin, her comrades in the Carta. Random strangers spitting at her in the streets or laughing in the tavern. 

Thom Rainier sleeps in her bed these days more nights than not. He sleeps there tonight and she presses her face into him, inhaling his scent through the thin linen tunic he wears, and he in turn shifts and wraps himself around her small body, his mouth pressing against the top of her head, mumbling something unintelligible into her perpetually messy hair.

He has called her clever, he has even called her wise. He has called her his salvation. She is not sure of any of these things, but she wraps herself in them, fashions armor for herself from them against the hatred of the world outside. None of it may be true at all, but he believes it in a way he had never believed she was beautiful.

He has never called her beautiful again. She doesn’t know what she would do if he did. 


	4. Despite All My Rage I Am Still Just a Nug in a Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cadash may just be slightly allergic to Orlesian nobles. Sadly, she can't seem to get away from them for long...

Cadash sighed and fidgeted on the chair. Thom let out a small noise of frustration behind her as her sudden movement pulled the lock of her hair from his fingers again.

“If you don’t sit still, you’re going to go down there tonight looking like you were mauled by a bear. Personally I don’t give a damn, but Josephine will probably give you hell over it later. Nicely, as she does, but hell nonetheless.”

She slumped over, leaning her elbows against the vanity, giving her own reflection a doleful glare. “That might be less painful.” She rubbed at her eyes and glanced at the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Another batch from several noble families out of Orlais was due to turn up by sunset, which meant Josephine arranging a banquet in the main hall and an endurance contest with her own patience. “I hate this kind of nug shit. I wonder if Sera has any bees left. I might just need her to end things early if it drags on too long.”

Thom's fingers undid the now-crooked half-done braid as he leaned over her. “I learned to do this for my sister Liddy when we were children. She always liked flowers or bright ribbons in her hair. I could go find some if you’d like.”

Cadash shook her head, sitting up again and trying to remain still. Too much exposure to nobles gave her indigestion and she couldn’t seem to get away from them for too long, short of a trip out to what Sera called “the arse-end of nowhere” like the Western Approach or the Deep Roads. She left a great deal up to Josephine, but it was still sometimes necessary for _The Inquisitor_ to show her face, such as it was. Normally she was descended upon by Vivienne and Dorian, at Josephine’s insistence, to make her “presentable.” Today, both of them were otherwise occupied until much later in the evening, by which time it would be too late.

“ _They’ve done it enough for you now that you should be able to manage by imitation at least_ ,” the ambassador had said, and herded Cadash up to her room. She loved Josephine but she’d almost said something quite undiplomatic to her friend, feeling slightly offended by that remark. The truth was, she was fairly hopeless when it came to things like hair, especially her own. Her mother had never fussed over her appearance when she was a child. She probably hadn’t really cared, given that she barely saw to it that her daughter was fed and clothed at all. Cadash remembered one particular winter when she’d had to go without proper shoes completely, when the old ones were suddenly too small and there was no money left for another pair (and it was no mystery why there was no money). She’d ended up stealing an old pair of her mother’s boots and praying it wasn’t noticed, then stuffing them with rags until they’d stayed on. That one lesson with a razor to remove the evidence her heritage had been the first and last of that sort of thing that her mother had taught her. She’d somewhat befriended a couple of the girls in the Carta later who had treated her like a toy doll on occasion, doing up her hair and face and giggling over the transformation like a pair of dwarflings. Cadash had always washed it all off as soon as she’d parted ways from them. It had always made her feel strange and very unlike herself.

Just like dealing with all these nobles and _important_ people. It made her _brain_ itch.

Thom hummed a tune behind her that she did not recognize as he completed his work, finishing a simple braid beginning just above each of her overlarge ears, and meeting at the back of her head to join together. He fastened the end with a single dark green ribbon that trailed down between her shoulder blades. He rested his hands on her shoulders and looked over her head at her reflection in the mirror, smiling. “Not too shabby for an old soldier, eh?”

Cadash managed a crooked smile in return. “Thank you, Thom.”

Thom looked into her eyes in the mirror for a long moment and eventually her smiled dissolved. She’d rather spend the evening up here, in her room, with Thom, as they usually did. The kitchens had taken to bringing up two meals in the evenings anymore; she no longer had to send a request. He still spent his days near the horses and his workbench, but his nights belonged to her now, and that’s how she liked it. She wished she could just lock the doors and keep the rest of the world out, forever.

Thom stepped around until he was in front of her and cupped her face between his hands, running his thumbs over both skin and hair without hesitation. He leaned down and kissed her, pulling at her bottom lip. Kissing had been a bit awkward at first, once they’d returned from their trip to the Hissing Wastes. She had not replaced the razor she’d lost. Two beards apparently had the habit of getting in the way of one other, but they’d managed to learn the knack of it, and the hesitation he’d had about it at first, had eventually disappeared. He deepened the kiss for a moment, then stood up, one hand still softly wrapped around her jaw, the pad of his thumb rubbing lightly at her chin.

“One last thing, I think, and then you’d better get dressed. Wait here, I won't be but a minute.”

“What--”

Before she could formulate the question, he’d bounded off down the stairs, disappearing into Skyhold below. Cadash turned back to the mirror, wondering once again if she should just shave the damned beard off altogether, no matter how irritating the razor was to her (peculiarly thin for a dwarf) skin. She’d met with a group of Nevarrans the previous week, and while they’d been prudent enough not to comment, they’d stared when they thought her attention was somewhere else. Nevarrans were a bit peculiar, but far less oblique in their dealings than anyone from Orlais. Only in Orlais had “The Game” reached such a vaunted status.

Perhaps Thom had left to go fetch a razor himself, finally tired of kissing a face nearly as hairy as his own. As far as Cadash knew, he wasn’t interested in the company of other men, and while she no longer doubted that he loved her, maybe it was just a step too far.

Thom returned with a towel and not a razor, but a pair of scissors. He pulled over another chair and sat in front of her, wrapping the towel under her neck. “I’ll just trim this up a bit before I’m accused of being a bad influence.”

Cadash blinked stupidly a few times, but made no protest, unsure of what he meant to do, but trusting him to do it. “For what it's worth, I’m pretty sure you already are.”

He chuckled to himself as he took out a small comb and began snipping away at those soft ends of her beard that wind liked to play with. The hair was fine and straight, no different to what grew from her scalp, and it was all generally impossible to keep in any sort of tidy shape without major intervention, but Thom seemed determined to give it a try tonight. A few minutes later and he was standing up and crossing his arms, surveying his work like a craftsman.

“It’ll pass muster for tonight, anyway. Don’t pay any mind to the nobs if they get shirty about it, though.” He glanced around the room, his eyes falling on a piece of Orlesian fashion that had been delivered earlier by a servant for her to wear that evening. “Do you want help with that outfit?”

Cadash slid off the chair and walked over to where the offending item was laid out on the bed and picked it up. It was actually fairly understated for an Orlesian style, something akin to an army officer’s dress uniform, with a few delicate, feminine embellishments at the collar and sleeves of a jacket with a long tail. At least the shoes were a fairly sensible pair of boots, and she wouldn’t be expected to wear one of those damned masks.

It had to be something Vivienne had cooked up, Cadash was certain of it. She was never quite certain where she stood with the Enchanter, despite all outward appearances of warmth and friendship. She was always hesitant to ascribe any of the woman’s favors to genuine affection, even after the business with the white wyvern’s heart. Vivienne was determined that the Inquisition should be _fashionable_ , after all, and exerted her influence with a deft hand. She’d given Cadash more than one lecture framed as friendly advice on presenting the proper appearance and on taking opportunities when they presented themselves (regardless of the origin). Vivienne had diplomatically refrained from commenting on the “beardyness” (as Sera referred to it), much as she’d become quite mum on the subject of her relationship with Thom since she'd had him fetched back from the hangman's noose, but Cadash could not imagine that the woman had no opinion at all. Vivienne, though, seemed shrewd enough to know what battles could be won without burning too many bridges, and those that were not worth the trouble. Cadash wanted to think the woman’s deeper motives were good-hearted, but she just... never quite _knew_. But that was Orlais for you... even outside of Orlais.

Speaking of... “Thom, I’d like you there with me tonight.”

He was momentarily speechless, staring at her until he recovered. “Are you sure that’s wise? I’m not exactly popular in Orlais these days.”

“I don’t care. They already know we’re together, there’s no sense in hiding it. Might as well give the bastards something else to whinge about in court later. They do it anyway. I just... I hate them. I know you do, too, so I guess I’d like someone else there to hate them with me, if that makes sense?”

She put the clothing back on the bed and looked over at him. He had that slightly harried expression he got whenever someone asked him to attend any sort of social gathering. Cadash knew it well enough, she got the exact same expression herself, but rarely had the luxury of avoiding it. He was going to protest, she thought, and she loved him too much to try and guilt him over it. She suppressed a smirk, though, knowing she was about to do something just slightly underhanded.  “If it’s too much, I suppose I could ask Sera.”

“No! No, don’t do that, it would be... very bad. Potentially hilarious, but... bad. I know they all heartily deserve a visit from Red Jenny but we, er... do actually need the support of these fools. Unfortunately.”

Cadash leaned over and wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly, her face pressing into the slight softness of his belly. He hugged her back for a moment, then pulled away. “Fine, I’ll go and clean up. You haven’t left me much time.”

Cadash grinned at his back as he loped off toward the stairs again, his voice trailing away in his wake. “You know Josephine is going to have a fit over her precious seating arrangements...”

 

 

* * *

 

The press of a heel against the toe of her boot jolted Cadash back to full awareness. He always knew when her inner thoughts were drifting off by the slightly glazed look that came over her face, not that anyone else seemed to notice in the slightest. The Orlesian noble had been droning on about “incursions” onto his family’s estate for over half an hour, complaining vociferously about some lot calling themselves the Freemen of the Dales. It was Chaos and an End to Order and probably the world itself, if she’d been foolish enough to buy his hyperbole. They’d do something about it, of course. Leliana had been passing along the rumors coming out of the Dales for weeks now about this group, and whispering about alliances with Red Templars, and, by extension, Corypheus himself.

“Yes, monsieur, I will personally see that this matter is dealt with soon,” she found herself replying. The heavy dinner sat in her stomach uncomfortably. She normally quite liked venison, but it disagreed with her tonight. Or perhaps it was just the company that disagreed. Thom sat beside her. Vivienne was in attendance at well, as she apparently knew these people, at least socially, and Cadash had earlier had to suppress the smirk that had threatened when the woman’s careful composure slipped for a moment.

Vivienne’s eyes had gone quite wide when she’d seen Thom standing there beside her in a fresh dress uniform (nicked from the barracks at the last minute no doubt, probably something that belonged to Cullen). His own hair had been combed within an inch of its life and pulled back neatly, his own beard trimmed into some semblance of tidiness, and his hands and fingernails and face scrubbed meticulously. He looked... _good_. He’d greeted Vivienne with all the proper pompousness and had only let that wolfish grin appear for the briefest blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment as he’d taken the enchanter’s hand and kissed it in the customary social greeting.

It had become a kind of unspoken game between Thom and Cadash to see who could be the most effusively “proper” that evening. Normally both of them would be screaming on the inside during the small talk and empty pleasantries, the pointless questions about health that could never be answered honestly, topped off with all the vague threats and double-meanings inserted into the actual business of the evening over drinks. Vivienne kept shooting surreptitious glances at the pair, studying them throughout the night, her expression mostly hidden under the mask that covered everything of her face above her mouth, other than her eyes. But, oh, those eyes could not hide her shock entirely.

Finally, the last drinks were cleared away and the party began to stand and depart, the conversation inching along toward the exit as swiftly as propriety and The Game allowed. Cadash finally gave her last farewells and counted to fifty before slamming the great wooden door on the cold night air as their guests were herded off by servants toward their quarters for the night. At least Sera’s bees hadn’t been necessary. _This_ time. A trip to the Dales was probably already being arranged by Cullen and Leliana. Leliana's spies were already well embedded in the region and had been for weeks. Lace Harding would depart first with reinforcements for the scouts, following the Orlesian entourage on their return trip, just out of their sight.

The Orlesians would depart in the morning and Cadash would be glad to see the back of them. She slumped against the ancient wood at her back and was suddenly overtaken by a fit of laughter, giggling like a little girl. Thom huffed a laugh beside her, not quite sure what the joke was. It was less humor and more just nervousness banked for hours finally breaking free, but Cadash felt lighter for letting it out.

Vivienne still stood nearby and removed her mask delicately, turning it about in her hands. The Enchanter looked at Cadash, her expression one of mild concern, or perhaps simple bafflement. The hall was mostly empty at such a late hour, and only Cadash, Thom, Vivienne, and a few servants cleaning up after their dinner remained.

“Are you quite alright, my dear? The evening went quite well, considering...” Vivienne rather pointedly did not glance at Thom.

“I’m fine, thank you. Just tired.”

Vivienne nodded at her. “Very good. Do let me know if you need anything, I know several families with connections to the Dales and they might have useful information. But do rest well tonight, darling, I fear we shall be quite busy.”

Her smile was warm and seemed genuine, Cadash thought, but she always second-guessed her own perceptions, particularly where Vivienne was concerned. Cadash had been toyed with by others like her too many times to not wonder. Vivienne moved to leave, then stopped and turned back to where Cadash was still leaning against the door beside Thom.

“I am glad to see that ensemble fits you so well, by the way. I was not sure of the tailoring... I am quite good at sizing up a fit by sight and my seamstress is very good at following directions, but it is not quite the same as making adjustments in person. Your time is in such demand that it is difficult to catch you for more than a few minutes at a time, it seems.”

Cadash pushed away from the door, standing up properly. She stopped herself from pulling at the jacket, which was a bit more closely fitted than she generally preferred, and managed to keep her hands behind her back and out of trouble. “I suspected you might have chosen it. Thank you for the gift, Madame.”

The Enchanter sighed in her usual practiced manner. Was anything the woman did spontaneous, or was everything choreographed and rehearsed? Cadash pushed away musings on whether the woman could even visit the privy without--- no, she wasn’t going there. That was more Thom and Sera’s territory, anyway.

“I know I’ve asked you to call me Vivienne at least twice.”

Cadash felt her face reddening but she didn’t know why she felt embarrassed. “My apologies... I suppose it’s just hard for me to remember such things.”

Vivienne glanced at Thom beside Cadash but made no remark on his presence, content as usual to pretend he was a piece of decor.  “You did well, tonight. Not that I would have doubted, after Halamshiral. But you seemed more relaxed than before. I am glad you are settling into your position. If you should ever have any questions, you know where to find me.” She made as though to leave, and hesitated yet again, finally turning to look at Thom directly. “I must admit I am also rather astounded that _you_ managed not to... Ah, never mind.”

Thom lifted an eyebrow at her sudden comment but made no other move. "Managed not to what? Humiliate the woman I love? I know you have a low opinion of me, Madame de Fer, but I would sooner walk back into the Fade.”

Cadash stepped back slightly, not sure if she should get involved. Thom reached over and placed a warm hand on her shoulder, squeezing slightly, although his eyes did not stray from Vivienne’s. Her instinct was to step in and defend Thom, but this was something that had been going on between him and Vivienne for too long and maybe they just needed to hash it out. 

“I just wasn’t aware you even knew how to--” Her eyes raked over his form from head to toe, finishing the sentence with the gesture, no words needed to make her point.

“I told you once that I wasn’t always a drifter. Surely you now know that I was a Captain in the Orlesian army once? For eight years, in fact, and a soldier before that. I assure you, I do actually know how to turn out for a dog and pony show like this, however absurd the exercise is.”

Vivienne’s eyes narrowed at him. Cadash shuffled a bit where she stood, reminding Vivienne that she was, in fact, still standing there. “He was quite the help, actually. Neither you nor Dorian were available earlier, so I asked him instead.”

Vivienne turned toward her and blinked just once. “Your hair, dear?”

She nodded, and smiled for real for the first time that entire evening, the masks blessedly discarded. “Just a braid and a bit of a trim, but it worked out alright, I think?”

Conflicting impulses warred behind Vivienne’s schooled expression. “As I said before, you did very well tonight. You should be proud of yourself.”

Something uncomfortably like pity settled in Cadash’s chest. Vivienne was just so... _stubborn_ , sometimes. She’d taken an instant dislike to “Blackwall” the moment they set eyes on one another, and at first her seemingly unprovoked mockery had hit him like a bronto galloping over a confused nug, before settling into a solid mutual antagonism that had never abated. Cadash supposed she ought to have seen it coming, after all. Vivienne was a veteran of the Orlesian court and put great stock in all the subtle dance and verbal jousting of The Game, and she was damned good at it. The woman was proud of her skill. People like Thom and Sera must seem like wild druffalo set loose in one of those shops in Val Royeaux selling those little spun-glass trinkets.

Although the curious part was that Cadash herself was hardly any more sophisticated. She did, by sheer accident, now sit in a position of power and influence, though, which apparently was more than enough to make up for any personal deficits. But she’d started to almost believe that Vivienne’s kindness and occasional favors had become less contrived and political after the business with the white wyvern’s heart and her paramour's death. Part of her desperately wanted to believe Vivienne was her friend, and not just one more in a long parade of people looking to carve out a pound of her flesh. Why couldn’t she just give Thom a chance?

Cadash was always a bit distressed when others clawed at Thom, although she knew he felt that he deserved it, however much he had reformed himself and continued to strive for better. She never believed that he deserved such treatment, though. He’d proven himself to her and she hoped one day he’d prove it to the rest of the world, however unlikely that was given most people’s penchant for holding grudges. And she kept hoping some day Thom would stop feeling like had something to prove at all. She felt that having her companions chewing on him all the time was not helping, though.

Vivienne had reached the door, finally, and departed. Cadash reached over and grabbed Thom’s hand, leading him to the door at the opposite end of the great hall that led to her - _their_ \- room.

 

 

* * *

 

They both stripped off the uncomfortable formal wear as soon as they shut the door behind them. It was after midnight, although dawn was still several hours away. Cadash pulled a random linen shirt out of the dresser and pulled it over her head. It turned out to be one of Thom’s and more or less swallowed her whole, but she was too damned tired to care. She flopped onto the bed and kicked the covers down, punched the pillow a few times and promptly rolled over onto her stomach, shutting her eyes.

The night _had_ gone well. They’d placated the nobles with promises of aid and an exaggerated show of sympathy for their terrible plight. She’d almost enjoyed it with Thom beside her. Somehow it seemed less burdensome having him nearby and knowing he found the whole thing as petty as she did. If only Vivienne hadn’t given in to temptation and taken a parting swipe at him at the last moment. The elegant Enchanter had managed an admirable job of ignoring him completely in the Hissing Wastes a month ago, and as awkward as that was, at least it was more peaceful.

The mattress dipped as Thom laid down beside her. He said nothing, but rubbed her back and shoulders in slow, firm circles, stopping to knead at the tightness in her neck occasionally. After a few minutes, he pulled the ribbon from the end of her braid and slowly undid his meticulous work one-handed.

“She was right about one thing, you know. You did very well tonight.”

“You did just as well, she just won’t admit it.”

He laughed and pressed a kiss into the nape of her neck as he pulled her into his arms. “I’m not worried about the good opinion of Madame Vivienne de Fer. Don’t let it bother you. I certainly won’t. She can’t hurt me. Not with words, anyway. Fire, perhaps, but I don't think she'd bother wasting her precious magic on such a terribly insignificant insect like me”

“It’s not fair, though. She’s kind to me because I’m the Inquisitor, but it’s only luck that got me here anyway. It could have been you just as easily, if you’d been standing there in the Temple instead.”

“It wasn’t me, though. It was you. And I don’t know that I could have done what you have managed here. You should give yourself more credit. I’d have probably told everyone to shove off by now. And I think she’s become more fond of you than you realize, however irrational that may seem.”

"Hm. Maybe...”

He kissed at her neck lazily, occasionally nipping at her pulse point. She was too exhausted for anything tonight, and he probably was as well, but he never could quite help himself. She still didn’t quite know what he saw in her, but she wasn’t going to argue when he felt like life itself against her skin. Maybe some of the others didn’t understand what a rare thing he was, but she did. And she wasn’t about to let him go.

  
[Illustration drawn on commission by NorroEndyrd](http://norroendyrd.tumblr.com/)

 

 

* * *

 

They had taken their time rising the next morning, dozing in bed together as the noise and bustle of Skyhold grew around them. When the usual shouting from the sparring yard below intruded, Cadash finally opened her eyes, but could not quite muster the will to move. She did not want to run into any of the Orlesian party before they departed, and she was in no rush to be grabbed by one of her advisors and dragged to the war table to plan the Inquisition’s excursion to the Dales. It inevitably devolved into a lot of shouting and she already had a mild headache, as she often did on a morning after dealing with particularly annoying people.

Josephine would probably leave her alone until after lunch, but the others had less consideration for her tender feelings. Cullen and Cassandra were probably feeling impatient and would want to leave as soon as possible. Leliana would want to wait for more information from her scouts, and for Harding’s reports in particular. Josephine would want to make contact with the families in the area and attempt to extract more promises of support, in case the situation got out of hand, while Cullen would probably want to just throw an army at the problem and let the Maker sort it out.

And they’d all talk about The Inquisitor like she wasn’t standing there staring up all of their noses. That was one of the hazards of being a dwarf, after all, but after many months, she thought they might think to see her as capable of speaking for herself. At the very least, the beard ought to have convinced them that, despite her stature, she wasn’t _actually_ a child. Cadash lifted her hand and stared at the thin line that was the “mark” when it was not active. It didn’t actually glow unless they were near a rift, or she willed it into becoming active. She’d gained more control over it than she’d begun with, but only Thom and Solas seemed to notice, or even particularly care. It still pained her now and then, random sharp jolts that only lasted a moment, but certainly prevented her from forgetting about it entirely.

Thom shifted beside her, grumbling a bit to himself as he retrieved his own arm from underneath her, rubbing at the pins-and-needles as his nerves woke back up. “As much as I’d love to stay holed up here with you forever, I’m afraid I promised Cullen yesterday that I’d help him with some of that lot he recruited from Redcliffe. Apparently not one of them has ever handled a sword or shield in their life. Well, probably for the best to start fresh anyway, so you don’t have to take the time to break all of their bad habits first.”

Cadash rolled toward the opposite side of the bed and slid to her feet to begin dressing for the day as Thom did the same. He gave her one last parting kiss on the way out the door. She leaned her head against the door frame for a moment before following, wondering in a vaguely cosmic sense how she ever got to this point in her life. No rest for the weary.

 

 

 

* * *

 

Cadash had not planned on this particular visit, but her feet seemed to push her in the direction of their own accord. She greeted Solas, who was sitting at his desk on the bottom of the rotunda and spent a moment chatting with Dorian to procrastinate, then headed through the doors leading to the balcony where Vivienne de Fer spent most of her time when at Skyhold.

She was seated facing toward the open door going out to the balcony when Cadash greeted her. Vivienne had a cup of tea in one hand and a book resting on her knee. She smiled and returned Cadash’s pleasantries and waved a gesture toward an empty chair on the other side of the small table holding the teapot. Cadash took the offered seat, forcing herself not to hesitate. She didn’t know why she felt the need to fool with playing even a child’s version of The Game, as she was not looking for any kind of contest today. She wanted to be honest, and hoped to get honesty in return, but she was willing to let Vivienne set the pace to begin with.

“What can I do for you, my dear? It is earlier than you normally come calling.”

Cadash took an empty teacup from the tray on the table and poured herself a cup, taking a sip and turning it in her hands for moment, examining the fine bone china. The rim was gilded and a hand-painted grapevine wrapped around the outside, even over the thin handle. It must have cost a fortune, she thought.

“I wanted to thank you again for the clothing, it was a fine gift.”

“You are very welcome, darling. And I'm delighted that you’ve already put it to good use. I must see about getting you a better wardrobe. Fashions do change rather swiftly, but some things never go out of style. You ought to take just a bit more pride in yourself. A little pride does no one any harm, you know.”

Cadash glanced at the book on Vivienne’s lap, something about herb lore from what little she could see of the cover. Her patience for polite small talk suddenly dried up. “Why did you join the Inquisition?”

Vivienne raised one sculpted eyebrow, glancing at her. “I thought I had answered this question before? I believe I told you when we first met, I certainly recall you asking. I wish to see order restored to Thedas, and I am not one to stand aside and let the world pass by without me. I much prefer to take an active role in my own fate.”

Cadash set the half-empty teacup on the table and looked out through the open door at the battlements on the other side of the courtyard. In the distance, she could hear both Cullen and Thom barking at soldiers, who apparently were not doing so well at their first lessons.

“What fate would that be, I wonder.”

“What fate do any of us have, in the end? I simply see no point in sitting idle while others make decisions for me.”

“You want the Sunburst Throne.”

Vivienne laughed. “You say that as though it were some sort of conspiracy! That is no secret. There are many candidates, of course. Not that I would refuse if i were called. Thedas needs strong leadership. You must know something about that by now. In fact, I am quite certain you do, however you may choose to demure on the subject.”

Cadash leaned back in the chair. She had no particular response to that statement, really. There _had_ been something almost accusatory in her statement, if she were honest with herself, although she was not sure why she felt so conflicted about something that was, ultimately, none of her concern. She wasn’t even Andrastean, not really. She still didn’t know if there was a Maker. She’d let people call her the Herald because it seemed important to them, and some kind of comfort, and she wasn’t cruel enough to rip that away, even if she could not really understand it. But what difference did it make to her who was elected Divine? Life for dwarves - both those on the surface and those in Orzammar - was unlikely to change at all regardless which behind was planted in that seat.

_But_ , some voice in her own head whispered to her, _you no longer have the luxury of only concerning yourself with dwarves._

_But_ , she replied to it, _no one else has ever concerned themselves with us._

Neither voice was terribly convincing. She rubbed at her eyes, still full of grit from too little sleep. “That’s fair enough I suppose.”

“I’m glad you see it that way, darling. Although something tells me that is not what you really came up here to speak to me about.”

Damn her perceptiveness, Cadash thought. She’d had half a mind to just leave it at that. She stared at her hands where they lay in her lap. Even before the mark, she’d had strange hands for a dwarf - thin, long-fingered. Just like her mother’s. She never had really fit in anywhere, even among other dwarves.

“If I asked you for a favor, Vivienne, would you do it?”

“Possibly. I suppose it depends on what you ask. I have many connections, but I cannot claim to be all-powerful, after all.”

Cadash shook her head, already feeling misunderstood. Might as well just spit it out. _She’ll probably just laugh in your face anyhow_.

“Can you leave Thom alone? I won’t ask you to like him. Just... leave him alone. I don’t think he even really cares, but... it upsets _me_ when you cut him down like that.”

Cadash slumped slightly when she received no immediate answer. Silence filled the space between them like a miasma for several long moments.

“I can do ask you ask, of course. However... well, never mind. It is your own choice, after all.”

“What is? Thom? Why do you hate him so much, anyway?”

Vivienne sighed again and took another sip of her tea. “You could do far better, you know. You deserve--”

Cadash leapt up from her chair, jostling the side table and sending the fine bone china cup tumbling to the flagstones where it shattered.

“Just. _Don’t_. You don’t understand him. You don’t _want_ to. You only see what you want to see, so don’t act like you know anything about him!” Cadash knew she must be as red as her hair now, and felt the hot tears slip free despite her efforts to keep them in. She pushed past the shocked mage and made for the side door leading back into the rotunda. Vivienne’s hand caught her wrist gently, but firmly, stalling her retreat. She pulled her hand away from that grip almost violently, but stopped her flight. She couldn’t bring herself to turn around, feeling humiliated as she nearly shook trying not to cry openly like a child in her sudden rage.

“I’m sorry, darling. I should not have spoken to you like that.”

Cadash turned on her heel, no longer caring about the state of her face. “Forget about me, you shouldn’t speak to _him_ like that! _He_ deserves better!”

Vivienne looked down and fished a fine silk handkerchief from a pocket in her robe, handing it to Cadash, who took it but did nothing with it. “Please, sit down. I truly did not intend to distress you like this. I did not realize you felt so strongly about this. I will do ask you ask and leave him be. Clearly I have missed something you have seen plainly within him. I cannot claim to see it myself but I will defer to your judgement in this matter.”

Cadash hesitated for a moment, then reseated herself. She didn’t really relish a walk past a couple dozen people when her face was red and felt hot and puffy. Her tears had stopped as suddenly as they had started, but it would take more time for the evidence of her lost control to vanish. “I would appreciate that, thank you.”

“No need to thank me. I suppose I earned that broken teacup. But it is no matter--” Vivienne gave a slight wave with her hand. The shards of china shifted and reformed into a whole cup, although the spilled tea remained in a cold puddle on the stone floor.

Cadash leaned down and picked it up off the floor, examining it for any evidence, turning it over in her hands while looking for a crack or seam. There was no blemish to be found. She set the cup on the tray where she had originally found it, and folded Vivienne’s silk handkerchief beside it. “Too bad everything can’t be mended so easily.” 

“Life would certainly be easier were that true, yes. But far less interesting. And, if all mistakes were so easily undone, I imagine no one would ever learn anything at all.”

“You’re probably right.” Cadash felt her heated face cooling off in the breeze from the open balcony, and stood, bidding Vivienne farewell for the time being. She was nearly through the door when Vivienne’s voice chased after her.

“Do stop by this afternoon, if you have the time. My seamstress is coming by and I have some ideas I’d like you to consider...”


End file.
